


Playback

by imaginethisgalaxy (heroinepose)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, How Do I Tag, My Kanera loyalty is fighting my thirst to the death here, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroinepose/pseuds/imaginethisgalaxy
Summary: Pretending to be the object of Kanan’s only-slightly-overblown affection is more than you bargained for. His hands are on you constantly, right at home on the small of your back or against your waist. He has developed a habit of leaning in entirely too close to speak to you, letting his lips brush against your skin, encouraging you to laugh at whatever he says to throw off any onlookers. It works; in the past week no one has so much as batted an eye at the two of you, which seems impossible but somehow isn’t. By the time you realize that the smiles you’re letting him have when he has you pulled into his lap at a table full of Imperials are genuine, it’s far too late to turn back and go home, or to vehemently deny the warmth that blooms in your chest whenever he pays you attention. (Requested by Anonymous on Tumblr ... like two years ago.)





	Playback

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself ... but I _am_ sorry? Also I did not edit this because I don't love myself enough for that.

You are not a spy. You have, in fact, _never_ been a spy – which is what makes Kanan’s request that you accompany him on an extended mission all the more perplexing. It’s a simple enough objective: go to Spira, pose as an officer and his paramour on holiday, gather as much accurate intel as possible, and encourage anyone you can to believe as much _false_ intel as you can reasonably drop into a conversation. _Playback_, they had called it, one of the oldest tactics in the espionage book. You still aren’t sure you’re the right person for the job, but Kanan could not and still will not be deterred, so you’ve long since given up trying. “You’re the right type,” he’d assured you. “You pay attention to details, you look plenty unassuming when you don’t have a blaster in hand, and in the right clothes you’ll look like the kind of girl who belongs in an officer’s club. I’ll be with you the whole time. You’ll be fine.” 

What you hadn’t counted on – what you’re still trying to deal with – is how intense an experience it is pretending to be someone you aren’t. In particular, pretending to be the object of Kanan’s only-slightly-overblown affection is more than you bargained for. His hands are on you constantly, right at home on the small of your back or against your waist. He has developed a habit of leaning in entirely too close to speak to you, letting his lips brush against your skin, encouraging you to laugh at whatever he says to throw off any onlookers. It works; in the past week no one has so much as batted an eye at the two of you, which seems impossible but somehow isn’t. You spend your days charming officers and their companions, tucked safely into Kanan’s side and generating the proper amount of misleading gossip about the _unscrupulous rebels_ running amok in your home system.

By the time you realize that the smiles you’re letting him have when he has you pulled into his lap at a table full of Imperials are genuine, it’s far too late to turn back and go home, or to vehemently deny the warmth that blooms in your chest whenever he pays you attention. So you let him press absent kisses to your bare shoulders while swapping fabricated stories with your newfound “friends” and pretend that nothing is wrong … or, you try.

He is much more handsome than he has any right to be, in his fancy embroidered tunic. You know you are dressed specifically to match him in an expensive shimmersilk gown (totally devoid of a back, much to your near-constant discomfort – the only time you feel comfortable in it is when the warmth of his hand skirts across the skin there, and then you are uncomfortable for other reasons) but you somehow feel like you clash with his apparently-effortless charm. It’s obvious to you that this isn’t what he’s normally what he’s like; you have also, after all, spent plenty of time holed up together in the suite you’ve managed to scam your way into drinking Old Janx Spirit this week. Even so, you manage to feel self-conscious about it anyway.

You know logically that you’ve had probably just a tad more Corellian wine than you really ought to have, but it would have been rude to refuse and you told yourself that you would be fine. It is not until Kanan ushers you up and guides you securely under his arm and against his side to walk you back to your shared suite that you realize exactly how intoxicated you are, leaning heavily into him. You’re not _that_ drunk – you’re quite lucid, actually – but if anyone asks you to run in your heels right now you’ll probably last all of four seconds before planting yourself face down on the plush hallway carpet. 

“That Vice-Admiral’s wife is trying to pickle me,” you groan quietly, and he laughs. You can feel the rumble of it in his chest against the side of your ribcage, and it’s somehow soothing.

“You’re doing better than me.” Kanan leans down a little after he presses the call button for the turbolift, so only the two of you can hear. “Last night when you wandered off with the other two to do whatever it is women need to be in packs for in the ‘fresher, the old man was trying to feed us all Whyren’s Reserve.”

“Stars,” you huff, pulling away from him a little to lean on the wall and wait. “I don’t know how you said no. I’d have done it. I felt like if I turned her down she’d get suspicious.”

“Who says I said no?” He grins down at you, and you narrow your eyes. It makes him laugh, moving to cage you against the wall with one arm and pull you into him with the other for the benefit of the other people lingering in the hall, and to discourage them from paying you too much attention. A thrill runs right up your spine when he leans in to speak next to your ear, close enough to the skin of your throat that you can feel the heat of his breath. “The Force can be helpful if you’re trying to keep your wits and someone’s trying to get rid of them.”

You forget, sometimes, that he’s a Jedi – _was_ a Jedi; the Jedi don’t exist the way they used to anymore. “Some of us don’t have that,” you murmur into his shoulder, swallowing hard when you feel him laugh gently against your skin before pulling back to look you in the eye.

“No, but you’ve got me. I won’t let you get in over your head.”

He has no idea that you already _are_ in over your head. The thought threatens to suffocate you, or perhaps it’s his closeness that has you completely out of breath all of the sudden. When the turbolift announces its arrival you duck under his arm to dart inside, twisting out of his grip so quickly that he actually looks startled for the half-second you can still see his face. You brace a hand against the wall of the lift, the other pressed to the space just below where your ribcage joins in the front as if it will help you to breathe easier. 

His steps follow yours more closely than you would like, and you hear him pressing the button for your floor without a word to you. You don’t know if you want to cry or throw up or both – you have been able to deal with his closeness for more than a week, but now it’s unbearable. Idly, you think perhaps it’s the wine. Maybe you’ve just had too much to drink, and it’s going to your head, ruining your concentration. It’s been so easy to pretend until tonight. You can hear him say your name, but it takes him another try to get a response out of you.

“I can’t,” you breathe, looking up at him and trying to get your composure back. Despite the effort, your voice shakes. “This is impossible. I can’t, I can’t.”

Kanan’s brow furrows, reaching out to try to touch your shoulder, but you angle yourself away, a hand still pressed against the wall of the lift like you think you might fall over. “What,” he tries, “what’s going on with you? What can’t you do?”

“This, Kanan, any of this. Please.”

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Reaching out to put a hand on either one of your shoulders, he doesn’t let you squirm out of his grasp again. He’s trying to ground you, you realize, and you are equally embarrassed and relieved. “Listen to me … whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as it seems. You’re doing fine. We wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t. Take a breath.”

You breathe as deeply as you can, feeling much too hot under the open concern in his face. You don’t know how to tell him that being himself is making things worse for you, that you feel like your skin is on fire where he’s touching you, that you – _that you love him_, you think distantly, and it’s the first time you’ve really admitted that to yourself. Swallowing thickly to keep yourself from either being ill or bursting into tears, you shake your head a little to try to clear it. “I’m sorry,” you settle for saying, “I think I’ve just had too much to drink. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Kanan doesn’t look like he believes you, but he doesn’t press the issue. “Let’s just get back, and we can figure things out.” When the lift finally reaches your floor you let him usher you out and down the hall, stepping as carefully as you can in your heels while still looking natural. The moment the door to your suite is open you lift the hem of your dress and kick them off into the entry corner, deftly avoiding what you’re sure is going to be a long line of questions you aren’t prepared to answer by ducking into the refresher and locking the sliding door behind you.

Setting the water in the sink to run cold, you place your hands under the tap and wait as it slowly cools from room temperature. You only withdraw them when it’s so cold that it almost stings, shaking the excess off before pressing your cold hands to the sides of your neck. Tipping your head back, you look at the polished tiles of the ceiling and try not to let the great sigh that rushes from you sound too loud as it echoes off the hard surfaces all around you. This might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever managed to do. Bad enough that there’s a larger rebellion out there that’s floundering no thanks to your inability to commit to espionage without losing sight of your job long enough to fall in love with your partner – you wince at the thought, leaning back against the frigid tile of the wall. It’s not as if you can very well _help it_, though, is it? Maybe you can – Kanan likely can, you realize, and something settles like ice in your stomach with the realization that he can’t possibly feel the same way you do.

“This probably doesn’t help,” Kanan says, so close to the door it makes you jump, “but there isn’t really anywhere else for me to go. We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.” 

“There isn’t anything to talk about,” you reply, but you hear the wavering in your voice in the echo of the refresher and know he knows you’re lying. “It doesn’t matter.” That sounds a little bit more correct, but the soft thud of something against the door tells you it’s not working. 

Kanan sighs, and you can hear the frustration in the way it turns into your name even though the sound is muffled. “I told you I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, and I meant it, but we have to work together on this. I can’t do anything for you if you don’t talk to me.”

You know he’s right. You _hate_ that he’s right. Fighting the burning sensation in the back of your eyes, you check yourself briefly in the mirror before you disengage the lock and let the door slide open, only slightly startled to see him so close to where it once was that you’re almost sure you could have taken his nose off. You open your mouth to try to say something, anything, but manage only a very weak beginning to a statement that goes nowhere. Trying to brush past him proves futile, as the moment you pass him on your way to the larger part of your shared suite his hand closes around your arm – not hard, but enough to stop you. 

“Whatever’s going on, you need to spill it. You’re my partner, you have to let me do my part in this.”

“There isn’t anything to do,” you insist again, and you can see him fighting the urge to roll his eyes at you. “It’s not on you, it’s on me. I didn’t know this was going to happen; if I did I would have fought you harder on this.”

“Hey, I’m still about eight steps behind you,” Kanan half-laughs. “I still don’t know what happened.” His hand retreats from your arm just long enough to move up to your shoulder, its mate coming up to join it. You start to find somewhere, anywhere else to look but at him, but feel his palms slide up to the sides of your neck, forcing you to look him in the eye. All at once the wind is out of your figurative sails, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, fighting the trembling in your legs with everything you have. “I’m so sorry, Kanan.”  
  
“What would you even need to be sorry for? Don’t be sorry,” he chides you, but gently enough that you know he isn’t upset. “I just need you to talk to me.”

His thumb skims the line of your jaw, a gentle back-and-forth that is too soothing for you to tell him to stop. The silence that hangs between you is much too long to be normal, and when he says your name to bring your attention back to him, your breath catches in your throat. It’s now or never, and he won’t drop it.

“This whole week … we were pretending to be lovers,” you begin carefully, swallowing hard under the gentle pressure of his hands. “But I’m not pretending anymore, and I have to know if you feel the same way.” You leave the bolo-ball in his court, as if you don’t know what the answer is already. He can’t possibly feel the same way. You feel the flexing of his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck as he processes it, prepare to pull yourself away when he rebuffs you and beg him to let you call to be extracted, but the rejection you’re expecting never comes.

“You can’t really think all of that was just for show,” he says finally, something like awe in his tone. You’re so taken aback by the revelation that you’re sure your eyebrows are actually _in_your hairline, but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed by it if they are. “Why do you think I asked you? It’d be easy to pretend with you.”

You aren’t even breathing, lips parted as if you want to say something, but there is too much to say and somehow you don’t have the words for it. Following his gaze as it drops to your mouth, you watch it linger there for a moment before he leans carefully in, lips hovering above yours. The breath you manage to pull in shakes, and you exhale his name, barely above a whisper. 

“Do you have any idea,” Kanan questions, “how much I think about this?” His voice is low, harsh, like the control required not to close the scant distance between you is equal to the effort needed to move mountains. Your hands move up to pull gently at the front of his fancy tunic, to keep him from retreating, to wordlessly beg him to do it so you don’t have to. His forehead touches yours briefly, breathing in deeply enough that you can feel his chest fill with air beneath your hands. The seconds of silence between you stretch out for too long before the tension finally becomes too much. You are the one to move first, hands sliding up to the back of his neck to keep him right where he is and closing the gap between you. He yields immediately, slow and careful but showing no signs of retreating. His hands fall far enough to grip your waist, pulling you to him with care, calloused palms wandering the line of your torso as his tongue delves gently into the space your mouth has allowed it. 

As the pads of his fingers find the warmth of your bare back something in him shifts; you feel it in the way his kiss becomes more intense, less controlled. The room spins, and you have to let your hand move to grip him right back to keep from sliding right down to the floor. Kanan presses the tips of his fingers into the soft curve of your shoulderblade beneath your skin, the hand not occupied there pressed to the small of your back to hold the line of your body tight to his. You find the closure of his tunic and pull at it without thinking, managing to get it halfway open before you realize what you’ve done. It doesn’t seem to put him off at all; in fact his hands are dipping beneath the edges of that backless gown – far enough that you can feel the goosebumps pressing up from your flesh, nipples pebbled painfully against the soft shimmersilk of that flimsy bodice.

You feel him pull away from you and you can hear yourself yourself make a displeased little noise about it, but he keeps you at arm’s length all the same, only a little breathless. “Tell me now if you don’t want me to.” Kanan watches you intently, as if searching for any sign of regret or unsureness. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Please,” you manage, fingertips grazing the line of his collarbone beneath the open fabric of his tunic as if to keep you grounded. Your head is still swimming, and full sentences are hard, but you know he won’t do it if you don’t say it. “I’ve been thinking about this for days. I want to. I _need_ to.” He opens his mouth, and you know he’ll ask again, so you cut him off. “Kanan, please.”

Your partner needs no further convincing.There is almost a type of reverence in the way his hands travel up, slowly slipping the straps of your dress from your shoulders, fingertips grazing the too-hot surface of your skin as he coaxes it into little more than a puddle of shimmersilk on the floor. He allows the backs of his fingers to run down the length of your arm to your hands, closing his around yours in order to pull you closer and exhibiting what you’re sure is an incredible amount of self-control in not acknowledging your bare chest, eyes on yours. You don’t put up a fight in the least, allowing yourself to be pulled in, letting him cross your joined hands behind your back as he leans in to seal a kiss over your mouth so utterly searing that you finally understand what people are talking about when they say someone steals their breath. 

The ache in your chest is unbearable, the tension that coils in the very pit of your stomach is making your head swim – you might collapse under the sheer pressure of wanting this, wanting _him_. As soon as his fingers extricate themselves from yours so that he can run them along the expanse of your back, your own find their way into the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing him as close as he can get, seeking friction though you know you’ll find none in this position. It’s a thought that tears a frustrated whine from your throat even as he bites gently at your bottom lip. As if he knows, he gently slides a knee between your own, allowing you to part your own thighs and grind against his. The moan that sweet pressure coaxes from you is much louder than you mean it to be, but the way his fingers dig into your skin – and the hard length of him, heavy and warm through the fabric of his pants – tells you he enjoys it _immensely_. You know, distantly, that your hands are working his tunic the rest of the way off and that he isn’t fighting you on it, but it doesn’t really hit you that your bare skin is against his until you realize how _warm_ he is against you, that you can feel his heart beating in his chest when he’s pressed this close. 

You know that he’s lifted you, but spatial awareness is long gone – it’s something of a surprise when you feel yourself all but thrown onto the bed, its decorative pillows scattered and shoved to the floor as you spread your arms to catch yourself. You start to admonish him but you don’t get a chance; the idea fizzles out and is replaced by a long string of _deeply_ obscene thoughts as you watch him lean over onto the bed, one knee perched on its edge, hands reaching for your hips. Leaning back until you are flat against the bedspread, you watch as he leans down and presses open-mouthed kisses to the flushed skin of your midsection, working his way down to the line where your hip bones sit. He nips at the skin just above the waistband of the flimsy garment covering your sex and glances up at you for any sign of apprehension before – finding none – hooking his fingers under the waistband and dragging the neutrally-colored scrap down your legs. You don’t see where he throws them and when his hands return to part your thighs you can’t find it in you to care.

When he grabs onto your legs where they meet your hips, you immediately know what’s coming, but gasp anyway at the sheer force with which he yanks you closer to the edge of the bed before kneeling between your knees. The line of kisses and careful bites he makes his way up your thigh with send fire blooming across the surface of your skin, and you only have to say his name once to get him to quit teasing you. You think that you’ve never been more grateful for anything in your life until a moment later, when his tongue slides between your folds. You arch off the bed so violently he has to hold you down by the hips and you stand _thoroughly_ corrected. “You’re not going anywhere yet,” he practically purrs, and you swear it’s almost enough to make you come undone to hear him talk that way after a week of unresolved tension.

Leaning in for another taste, he avoids giving the one place you want him most any attention. He deftly maneuvers around the little bundle of nerves, applying just enough pressure with his tongue to tease at it, to stimulate it indirectly, but never _there_. It’s already driving you up a wall, fingernails scraping at the bedspread as you grip it in an attempt to stay still for him. Your hips rock into his ministrations almost by themselves, still held under control by the force of his hands. He is intent to take his time, it seems, all long languid strokes of his tongue against the smooth slickness of your inner folds. You want to beg him to give you what you want, but all that you manage is a gasping whine that sounds only vaguely like his name. It’s enough to spur a growl against your skin before he finally – _finally_ – teases your swollen clit with his tongue, swirling, pressing, lapping with deliberate strokes. The cry that tears itself from your throat is much louder than you intend but he makes no move to quiet you. Instead, he reaches to the hand you have digging into the plush fabric of the bedspread to tangle your fingers together against your hip. It is reassuring for all of a moment before you are lost again, back as taut an arc as you can manage as he suckles the little pearl at the apex of your sex, teeth grazing.

You know your fingernails must be digging painfully into the flesh of his hand, but his pace is uninterrupted, so he must not care. Eyes fluttering shut, you try to resist the urge to clamp your thighs around Kanan’s head to keep him right where you want him. Maybe it’s the Force, or maybe he’s just done this a lot – you try not to dwell on it – but you feel him pull away just long enough to toss your legs over his bare shoulders, as if he’s keen to stay there for the rest of the cycle. The outright moan you treat him to is pornographic enough that you reach up to cover your own mouth, but his hand closes firmly around your wrist, startling you slightly. “Nope,” he half-groans against the juncture of your leg and hip, “none of that. I want to hear everything.” There is a sort of squeak in the affirmative from you, which he must assume is agreement because he’s pressing a kiss to the joint before ducking down, his lips and tongue returning to their place between your thighs, dedicated to tasting every part of you that they can reach – and then some, if he can manage it. It makes your legs shake in a way that amazes you, like you need to stretch but can’t move. You can feel your breath quicken under his ministrations, short deep gasps for air as his hands skirt up your sides and down again. 

“_Stars_, Kanan,” you huff, more to the ceiling than to him as you squirm and arch against the bed. He groans against you, signaling that his name is clearly the way to go, and your insides lurch at the idea that you can make him fall apart, too. You take a shaking breath to say it again, but he chooses that moment to run his fingers along the warm, wet folds of your pussy before pressing slowly inside, and then you do say his name, just at the head of a breath that shakes with your whole body. 

He is careful, deliberate about the slow slide of his fingers in and out of you, and when you look down between your thighs again he is watching you more intently than you’ve ever been watched in your life. His pace quickens when he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted, pressing his tongue once more to your clit with languid licks. The first time he actually sucks at the sensitive organ, your hips buck up so hard he has to hold you down with a considerable amount of effort, but the hum he treats you with sends heat right to your core. He’s enjoying this – enjoying you – and it’s almost more than you can bear to think about. Your body twists as much as it can in his hold, and before you can say anything to him about it, your orgasm catches you by surprise, ripping through you with all of the savage force of a geomagnetic storm as you cry out, swearing more vividly than you intend. It only serves to spur him on, fingers moving to work you through your release as you clench around them.

You’re almost relieved when your body finally loses some of its tension, boneless and gasping for air against the bedding as Kanan draws away from you, watching the rise and fall of your chest like it’s the only thing in the world. When you finally feel like your limbs aren’t lead – how long has it even been, how long has he been waiting for you to show him you’re okay? – you reach out to him. He moves in immediately, pressing a line of open-mouthed kisses up your stomach and chest before, finally, he allows you to pull him against you and to your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue and, Maker help you, you might just crave it from now on. Your hand snakes between the two of you, down the lean muscle in his torso to the closure of his pants … and further, palming him through the fabric. The quiet groan of your name against your mouth is music to your ears, and you can’t stop the smile that turns the corners of your lips up. It doesn’t escape his notice.

“You’ve been holding out on me. How long have you been planning _that _move?” Kanan asks, amusement cutting the tightness in his voice only slightly.

“About a week,” you manage, only half a laugh as you squeeze the outline of his length gently for emphasis. He exhales hard, like he might have laughed if you hadn’t done it, grinding into your grip and dropping his head against your shoulder.

“You’re trying to kill me.” It earns him an actual laugh and some mercy as you move to unfasten his pants and push at the waist, coaxing them off his hips as much as you can without his assistance. He’s all too happy to help you along, shucking both pants and underwear in one move and dropping them somewhere out of sight. He’s on you again in seconds, pressed flush against you as his mouth slants over yours. It’s brief, and he moves quickly to your jawline, your throat, the valley between your breasts – he bites at the flesh of one, a hand moving to knead and roll the other as his lips work their way to your nipple and suck gently, warm and wet for the brief moment before he pulls free and leaves the hardened peak to the now-chill air in the tiny space between you. “Do we need – I mean, are you –” Oh. You hadn’t even thought about it.

Moving your hands up to the base of his skull, you tip his face to look at you. “I’m covered,” you say with a small smile. He opens his mouth for another question, but you stop him. “I trust you, Kanan.” You can actually, physically see him swallow as soon as you’ve said it, see the shift in the way he’s looking at you – mostly like you’re about to be eaten alive in the best way, but with the same kind of affection he’s lavished on you in the sight of a dozen Imperial officers over the last week.

Something in your stomach does a somersault, and then you’re pulling him against you again, kissing him like you need it to survive. His hands work their way down between the two of you, rubbing gentle patterns into the juncture of your thighs to distribute the wetness there before hooking a hand under your leg to open you further and beginning the slow, careful press inside. There isn’t pain, not really – just the sensation of being stretched around the girth of him – but Kanan’s fingers trail soothingly along your thighs all the same, the constant steward of your comfort. You can feel the humid heat of his breath against your throat as he groans once he’s fully seated inside you, teeth dragging briefly against your collarbone as he waits for your go-ahead.

“Kanan,” you murmur finally, hands brushing the planes of his shoulders and roving upwards, into the roots of his hair, thumb pressed against the jumping of the pulse in his throat. “Please?”

Nearly immediately, he retreats and plunges back into you – and again, and again with a focus that forces the air from your lungs. You’re distantly aware of your hips lifting from the plush bedding to meet his, the drag of his hips against yours almost overwhelming. You lose track of what’s happening quickly; there is the sharp pressure of his teeth against your throat, the wandering of his hands as he eventually moves his hands to your hips to hold you in place as his every thrust jostles you. 

His limbs slide against yours, sweat-slick and shaking as you wrap a leg around his hips to spur him on, to seek the friction of his hips against yours as you both race to release. It feels like every nerve ending is slowly burning under the surface, a tangled, undulating knot of sighs and open-mouthed kisses anywhere that can be reached. The cadence of his hips becomes erratic, the tension in your lower belly wound nearly as tight as it can go.

You hear your name, as if from far away, although you know his mouth is against your shoulder. It’s hard to focus, hot all over and so close to the edge, but you manage to eventually pull together the fragments of the sentence he’s trying to pull together in the haze of imminent orgasm. “I – can I –”

_Oh_. “Yes,” you manage, “please, yes – stars, _Kanan_ –”

All at once, you feel him filling you, heat and pressure as his hips stutter against yours. You feel yourself grind against him unbidden, seeking that one last push over the edge and are rewarded with release at last, although less intense than the first. His breath catches as he presses his mouth against the meeting of your neck and shoulder, feeling you clench around him as he works the both of you through the last waves of pleasure. For a long moment, neither of you makes a move.

Kanan drops his forehead to your chest eventually, and you suddenly become aware of the hammering he must feel there before he presses an absent kiss to the space between your breasts. You take a deep breath, about to say something, before he very carefully extricates his limbs from yours, pulling out of you at last. The absence of him makes you gasp, overstimulated and frankly exhausted from both the physical exertion and the tension that immediately preceded it. Your eyes close as you try to will your heartbeat to slow, bringing an arm up to cover them more completely against the light of the room.

You’re halfway to blissfully dozing when you feel something warm between your legs and physically jump, startled right out of that reverie and sitting up on your elbows. Kanan laughs, reaching out to hold you gently in place as you finally focus in on his face, slightly alarmed. “I thought I lost you for a minute, there. It’s just me.” The hand not against your hips is holding a damp cloth, and your heart does a funny little turn at the idea that he had absolutely planned to take care of you whether you knew it or not.

“I was falling asleep,” you manage, brain still not quite caught up. 

“I noticed.” He nods slightly, as if to indicate the crux of your thighs. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to sleep _like that_.” Your partner watches for any indication that you might stop him before – exceedingly gently – he finishes cleaning you up, the sticky remnants of release wiped away with minimal discomfort. You make no move to stop him, nor do you protest as he does away with the cloth and crawls his way back up the expanse of the bed to you.

Kanan’s arm wraps around you without preamble, and you find yourself smiling before you can catch yourself – there is the question of what next, where are we, what are we doing, but it can wait. Turning carefully in his grip, you face him, and he dips his head to bring his mouth to yours without hesitation. It isn’t anywhere near as fierce or as lingering as when you’d finally come together, but your head swims all the same. He breaks off before you think to, allowing silence to settle over the both of you for what seems like a long time.

“You alright?”

“You’re asking me that now?” You prod at him teasingly, and he scoffs, but you’re both grinning, so he must not take it personally. “I’m alright.” A beat, and then you think better of it. “I’m great.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says casually, a hand moving up to brush against the bare curve of your side. You roll your eyes, and he pokes you much in the same manner as you had, coaxing a laugh from you. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

“Me too,” you admit, the sentiment tinged with sheepishness. “I was just …”

“I know,” Kanan murmurs. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I know,” you murmur in turn, shimmying to press the line of your body against his again and bury your face in the crook of his neck. You feel him shuffle only a little awkwardly against you before the bedding begins moving, finally settling over you both as he returns his hands to your skin, dropping a kiss to your shoulder right above the line of fabric. Your eyes fall closed at the sensation, and you can’t find the motivation to open them again, stifling a yawn before repeating yourself quietly. 

“I know.”


End file.
